


Call Me Irresponsible

by Hazel75



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson has a nice ass, Drinking, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Indeterminate season 2, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Skye appreciates that, a lot of drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazel75/pseuds/Hazel75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson and Skye get drunk.  One thing leads to another.  </p><p>Inspired by tumblr conversations and the recent photo of Clark sitting Chloe's lap.  And Clark Gregg's butt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Irresponsible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartofalifer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=heartofalifer), [a-cute-lil-octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=a-cute-lil-octopus), [Skyepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/gifts).



> Title taken from the Frank Sinatra song with the same name.

Coulson’s standing at the window, sipping a glass of scotch when Skye strides into his office and flings herself onto the couch. It was a rough day, which isn’t unusual in and of itself (when was their last easy day), but Coulson’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing Skye get shot at. And for that matter, Skye looks as done in as he feels. She stares at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, and he feels a little discomfited by her scrutiny. 

“So, are you going to offer me a drink? Because I’d really like one,” she asks, indicating his glass. 

He blinks. “Sure, sure. Sorry.” 

He walks over to the cabinet behind his desk. “Neat okay?” 

“What? Oh, no ice or water. Yeah, fine, whatever.” He pours her a couple of fingers and takes it over to where she’s sitting. 

She tosses it back, grimacing, and he scowls. “That’s good scotch, not Jim Beam.” 

Skye rolls her eyes.

“Do you have any Jim Beam? Because that? Would be awesome.” 

“No, sorry, only good liquor here. In the future I’ll be sure to stock some crap for you.” 

He looks at her carefully. He’s not known Skye to be much of a drinker, and, while today wasn’t easy, they’ve had worse. “Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?” 

She looks up at him and gives him a small smile. “Not really. I’m fine – promise. Just sometimes I wish we could pretend to be regular people. Be irresponsible.” She sighs and shrugs. “Stupid, huh?” 

He gives a small shake of his head because he can get it. There’s not any off time, hasn’t been for a while, and it wears on one to be on all the time. He thinks for a moment as she sits looking in her glass. 

“Don’t go anywhere. I have an idea.” 

Coulson dashes out towards the kitchen, leaving a bemused Skye on his couch. Once there he digs through the cabinets and finds what he was looking for. He’s been an agent longer than most of the people around here have been alive, and they’ll have to get up a lot earlier in the morning to pull one over on him. It does amuse him that evidently someone thinks they have to hide their liquor rather keeping it in their quarters. Kids. A stop at the refrigerator and the cutlery drawer and he’s found what he needs.

As he walks back to his office, he forces himself to slow down so no one questions why the director might be in a rush to get back to his office. Because, really, there’s no reason to hurry. It’s not like Skye’s going to leave. He picks up the pace again. 

When he gets back, she’s standing at the record player, shuffling through his records. Of course, she’s still there, and he feels foolish for thinking otherwise. And if she had, so what? He’d finish up what he needed and go to bed. No big deal. This wasn’t a date. He laughs at himself, and she turns around, an album in hand. 

“Three Dog Night? Honestly, not one I expected to find in your collection.” 

She slips the record out of the jacket and places it on the player, carefully setting the needle down. 

“So what did you go after?”

He places his finds on the coffee table and smiles. “Rotgut tequila, limes and salt. Sorry, no shot glasses. We’ll have to make do with old fashioned glasses.” 

“Classy, Coulson, super classy.” 

He rocks on his feet and smirks. “Yes, well, just call me irresponsible.”

“God, you’re a dork.” 

“Maybe, but I’m the dork with the tequila. You in?” 

She smiles and walks back over to the couch and sits down again. “I’m in.” 

He starts slicing limes.

***************** 

“Hit me again, Sam. Wait, that’s not right. Whatever. Another drink. Make it so.” Skye holds out her glass, gesturing. “You, too. Keep up.” 

A little salt on the hand, a wedge of lime and there’s another one down the hatch. They both cough and grimace. 

“You weren’t kidding. This stuff is horrible.”

"It gets the job done.” 

“Sure, if the job involves a horrible headache and hangover tomorrow. You’re full of great ideas.” 

They’ve made a nice dent in the liquor, and the night isn’t as young as it once was. Coulson moved from his chair next to Skye on the couch a while ago, and is amused to find himself inching closer to where she is every time he fidgets. He’s relaxed (very relaxed) but feels an undercurrent of tension, anticipation in his gut. His thoughts are rather loose, and he’s thinks he’s on the cusp of something. Arousal maybe. And that’s an exciting idea – arousal and Skye – he thinks being aroused by Skye might be an awesome experience in the true sense of the word. 

As they banter about inanities, he lets himself touch her, his knee brushing hers, his hand tapping her hand, her arm, her thigh as though to emphasize what he’s saying, and she, in turn, reciprocates the gestures. It’s been a while but not so long that he can’t recognize the signs, the signals he’s sending out and that she’s returning. 

It’s interesting: this search for connection through discussion of the mundane to discover where commonalities lie – music, movies, books – and where they don’t, exploring the reasons why and connecting there. 

Part of him, a very small part that still seems sober in spite of the alcohol knows this is something of a fiction. He and Skye don’t need to flirt to be connected. They already are, deeply. But it feels nice, normal, this is what regular people do. Regular people who haven’t been injected with alien serums that may have caused irrevocable changes to their bodies and minds, who don’t work for shadow organizations and get shot at for a living (a living – that’s a joke – when’s the last time anyone got paid), who don’t fight Nazis bent on creating mass extinction events, regular people who meet at bars, at parties, and who like each other, are attracted to each other, and who want to see how far the other will take it. Even if it’s unwise, irresponsible. 

He thinks he can remember following the steps of this dance with Audrey and how sweet the anticipation is – the tension before anything happens. He and Aubrey never shared more than a few glasses of wine. But while he can’t be completely sure of his memory (thanks, Director Fury), he can’t recall having such a yearning to be reckless or foolhardy. The persona he created back then never needed or wanted this much lubrication. Drinking so much now is probably, no definitely, a mistake. In vino veritas may be a lie, but he finds himself unconcerned with reining himself in, keeping things safe. And that does scare him a bit but not as much as it should. 

He congratulates himself for being so competent at multi-tasking. Because he feels curiously like he’s in two places at once – there’s the Coulson sitting with her carrying on a ridiculously inane and ridiculously deep conversation about Kirk and Spock (which what is wrong with him, why not poetry or novels or anything else) and at the same time there’s the Coulson watching himself and Skye from a short distance, observing their interactions and cataloguing them as though for later analysis. Maybe this was how Spock felt only without the extreme drunkenness. He catches himself before he shares this thought with Skye. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much before,” Skye says, studying him. “It’s weird.” 

He blinks and touches his mouth. “Weird? That’s good to know.” 

“No, no, not like that. I don’t mean you go around all frowny or terse. But your smile is usually more restrained? I’m not saying it right. Must be the cheap liquor.” 

He touches her hand and plasters a huge grin on his face. “How’s that?”

“Um, kind of freaky, dumbass.” She looks around. “I think we need more music. I want to hear ‘Mama Told Me Not to Come’ again, pretty please.” 

“Okay, and double dumbass on you.” 

He tries to stand and fails at first. He manages to get upright on his second attempt, but then his right foot, which seems to have a mind of its own, decides to get in the way of his left, and that’s all she wrote. He lands in Skye’s lap and steadies himself with his hands on her shoulders. 

He laughs. “Sorry, that first step is a doozy.” 

“Yeah, smooth move, Exlax,” Skye says, laughing, too. 

“Yeah, well, that saying is older than you.” 

“Great comeback. You really got me.” She laughs even harder, and he can’t stop from joining it. It was pretty lame, but nothing better’s coming to him.

“Skye, I think I just may have had too much to drink.” Leaving his right hand on her shoulder, he holds his left up, doing his best to peer between his forefinger and thumb. Which may have been a mistake as he feels himself swaying and he quickly puts his hand back on her other shoulder. 

“Ya think? Hmm, with observational skills like that I can see why Fury made you director.” 

“Nah, I just think there wasn’t anyone else left.” He keeps laughing like this is the funniest thing in the world. 

“Oh, fuck, Coulson.” 

He shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

She snorts. “You know, you’re funny when you’re drunk.” 

It occurs to him that her eyes are way too close to his, and he drags his eyes away because even in that state he knows there be dragons. And he’s going to stand up in just a moment. Any minute now. Except, wait, what? 

“Are you rubbing my butt?”

Her hand stills, and he wishes he had kept his mouth shut because he wasn’t complaining. 

“No. Of course not. Why would you…well, not anymore.” She giggles. He’s not sure he’s ever heard her giggle before. 

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” 

“If I might make an obser-, excuse me, an observation, I mean, you’re looking down my shirt. My eyes are up here.” 

“Hmm, shit, so I am. Guess we’re even then.” 

She laughs, softly now, and she still hasn’t removed her hand. But then he hasn’t moved his eyes. Even now he’s fairly sure her face (her eyes or her lips) is the more dangerous option. 

While he’s been ruminating, her fingers have resumed their slow circles. 

“It’s just so firm. And well-shaped. Very impressive, sir.” 

“I work out.” His right hand has found its way from her shoulder to her collarbone, and he’s fascinated with how soft the skin is under his thumb. He might have been wrong before; the dragons are everywhere. 

“What dragons?” She asks in a low voice, sounding perplexed, and her left hand is stroking his thigh. 

He answers by pressing his mouth to her collarbone next to his thumb. He was wrong before. The flirting, the banter, that was innocent. This is reckless, this is dangerous. He slides his lips up her neck, tasting a hint of dried sweat on the skin under his tongue. 

Skye moves her head and says his name. He hums an acknowledgement against her skin, and he feels her shiver.

She tilts her head further as he moves up towards the soft spot below her ear. 

“Um, what’re we doing?” Skye asks in a low voice as she yanks at his shirt until he can feel her fingers on his skin. 

“Being irresponsible,” he says, nibbling her ear, “like regular people.”

“Good call,” she says in reply and slides her hand under his waistband to run her fingernails against his bare ass. 

“Oh, fuck, Skye,” he hears himself groan. 

She laughs throatily. “Works for me. Now, move.” 

She pushes him off and back on the couch, giving him a wet, dirty kiss and pushing her tongue against his. They spend the next few minutes, unbuckling, unfastening and removing the necessary items of clothing and then she’s on top of him and he’s in her and then she’s moving. He looks up at her face, her eyes, and spends a moment wondering what in the hell they are thinking before moving his thumb to her clit, leaving the other on her hip. Because if they’re going to make this particular mistake, he wants it to be good for the both of them.

It’s over far too soon, and Skye has her face against his neck. Her breath is warm and moist against the skin there as he strokes the skin of her back under her shirt. His heart is racing, and he takes a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. 

“So, on a scale of one to ten, how huge of a mistake was that?” she asks, her lips still against his skin. 

“Probably a twelve.” He chuckles and brings a hand to her head, raising it until he can find her lips with his. He slides his tongue into her mouth and moves it against hers lazily, finally taking a moment to taste her. After a while, she lifts her head up and looks at him. 

“So, are you going to freak out on me?”

“Are you?”

Skye gives him a bemused smile. “I kinda already am. A little bit.” 

“Yeah, me, too,” he says sheepishly. 

“But I’ll still respect you in the morning. I think.” 

She smirks, and he pulls her back down for another slow kiss. 

“Why don’t we go back to my room to sleep it off so we can test that out?” he asks, wondering at his lack of discretion. And then he has to laugh at himself because discretion left the building a while back. 

“You know, I think I like Irresponsible Phil.” Skye smiles but looks a little uncertain, and he thinks she’s probably worried about tomorrow. 

He returns her smile, and he sees some of her uncertainty drain away. 

“Me, too, Skye, me, too.”


End file.
